Page 67 of Meet Jon, the Billionaire

It hit me then, how different it was from the Acme Bread kitchens I’d visited upon purchasing the company. There, it was very regimented. Structured. The staff went about their tasks in an efficient but largely silent fashion. They appeared very clinical in their long white aprons, hairnets, and face masks. I had thought it looked a lot like government scientists, and not much like bakers.

It began to occur to me that if I could capture a little bit of the magic Amelia had in Breadcetera and spread it around the Acme kitchens, then we might have not only a better product, but happier employees.

Sometime around three in the morning we finished the work. Everyone stood around basking in the glow of a huge profusion of baked goods. There were loaves of delicious smelling bread, from light-hued soft country white to rich, dark pumpernickel. White glaze glistened on top of cinnamon rolls far too big to hold in one’s hand. Oh, and the cookies. I can’t forget the cookies. Every type I’d ever seen, and twice that man I’d never even heard of.

I tried to watch my carbs, but I couldn’t resist when Amelia offered me something she referred to as a ‘crack’ cookie. It consisted of thin pretzel sticks, a honeybunch and oats breakfast cereal, a bit of peanut butter and a generous helping of marshmallow to help it all stick together.

“Well, if you insist,” I said, putting the treat into my mouth and taking a bite. The crunchy texture, the powerful but not cloying sweetness, and the varied layers of flavor created a sensual cascade that seemed to pass from my mouth to my stomach, and then spread all over my body.

“I can see why you call them crack cookies,” I said in awe.

“I don’t normally put them out on the display case. They’re kind of expensive to make. It’s so hard to find marshmallows that aren’t made with high fructose corn syrup these days. But they’re always a hit when I do make them.”

“You don’t seriously call them crack cookies do you?”

“No, we call them Petunias. It was my aunt’s recipe.”

“I like it.”

We had a couple of hours before we had to go and load all of those goodies onto a van and take them to the senior center for the bake sale. I sprung for breakfast for the entire crew at a twenty-four-hour diner. The food was substandard to what I normally eat, to be honest, but the company made it a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I enjoyed watching Amelia talk to the chefs whom she’d admired for so long. Her face just lit up.

I could make her light up like that, once… is there any hope for us at all? Or did I dig too deep a hole to leap out of this time, even if I am the Tiger?

After breakfast, the pastry chefs went gratefully off to bed—or more likely, to their own bakeries and restaurants—while Amelia’s crew and I loaded their delivery van with the goods.

We stopped for strong coffee at one of those trailer deals, and it wound up being a damn good cup of joe. When we finally reached the senior center, the security guard let us in and showed us to the auditorium.

“It’s big,” I said, staring up at the ceiling.

“It also functions as a bingo hall,” Amelia said. “Now stop gawking and start putting price tags on this stuff.”

She punctuated her command with a playful slap on my ass. I laughed, she laughed, and I started to think that maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Amelia

The baked goods had been set out, taking up eight full-sized metal folding tables when spread out to the fullest. The prices had been set. Pedro and Yerkov were ready with their tablets and the attached credit card swipers, and someone had dug out an old cash register for customers who didn’t want to use a card.

All we needed now were patrons. I looked up at the big Breadcetera banners hanging over the table and frowned. “Are you sure this isn’t too self-aggrandizing?”

“Not in the slightest.” Jon grinned. “This is all about repairing your reputation. And besides, the number one thing that drives business is brand recognition.”

“The number one thing that drives business is keeping your employees and your patronage happy.” I fixed him with a hard glare. “Maybe in your sprawling empire things work that way, but you’re on my turf now.”

I gave him a wink to soften the blow and he nodded sagely.

“I have a lot to learn from you, Amelia.”

I looked up into those blue eyes and felt weak in the knees. My resolve had been crumbling literally all night and into the morning. Now I began to waver more than ever.

“Well…” my cheeks burned, and I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d never been flattered like that before. In fact, no man I’d ever dated had said anything remotely close to that, much less with so much earnestness.

Fortunately, I was saved by the bell, as it were. My Aunt Petunia showed up in her powered chair, a fierce grin on her face as she led a veritable busload of senior citizens inside the auditorium. They descended upon our bake sale like a horde of locusts. We went to work, answering questions, bagging items, and generally glad-handing with the public.

“Are you sure you should have put the bread at the beginning of the queue?” Jonathon asked. “You said it yourself that the cookies are the star attraction. Why not have them first?”

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